


Old friends. Or the time James and Fiona skived off a conference and drank stolen wine.

by McG



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Crevecoeur Hall, Episode Related, F/M, Free conference wine, warning: some discussion of childhood sexual abuse (non-graphic - not detailed)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15766071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McG/pseuds/McG
Summary: James Hathaway and Fiona McKendrick are both attending the same conference. It's the first time they've seen each other since Fiona moved to London with her promotion. She learns more about James' past: and we learn more about their past relationship. Also, they kind of are good friends, despite their awkward break up.





	Old friends. Or the time James and Fiona skived off a conference and drank stolen wine.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: brief discussion of child sexual abuse, in that it is the topic of one of the talks at the conference in the story. Nothing graphic, but some emotional fall out is seen.

Detective Inspector Fiona McKendrick ducked into the back of the conference room just as the presenter clicked onto the first slide and welcomed the group to the session. She hastily muted the ringer on her phone and stuffed it back into her trouser pocket. It was convenient having a team to do her bidding, but damn annoying when they seemed to want her approval for every little thing, even though they knew fine well that she was at this training symposium all week. 

"I'm sure many of you will have seen some version or another of this training before, but I ask you all to bear with me and try to pay attention anyway: it's important that we cover the basics before we get into the detail of the new guidelines." she explained, smiling round at the audience. 

The title slide on the projector screen declared that she was Gabriella Smith, Criminal Intelligence Analyst. 

"I know you all want to get to lunch, and it's been a long week, but I promise I'll try to make this as painless as possible," she continued. 

There was a brief pause as Smith gathered her notes and took a sip of water. Fiona took the opportunity to slide into the end seat of the back row, smiling thanks as her seatmate shifted his bag along to make room. Fiona scrabbled in her branded conference tote bag to retrieve the materials pack, flicking to the appendix relating to this session, and clicking the free pen to deploy the nib. 

Sorted and ready to listen, she spotted a familiar figure sitting a few rows ahead and across the other side of the aisle from her: James Hathaway, slouching low in his chair, a notebook balanced on his knee, pen being furiously gnawed on; the action of a man who'd missed his regular cigarette break, she surmised. 

Fiona knew James was at the conference of course. The first thing any self respecting police officer did on receipt of the delegate pack was to review the list of attendees. Important to know if you needed to avoid anyone, or if there was a good opportunity for networking. Funny, she thought to herself. A few years ago she'd have put the networking first and the avoidance second. Seniority was either mellowing her ambitious streak or making her more cynical, she wasn't sure which. 

"Given that the court case is now over, I'm pleased to be able to include a new real-life example," the presenter was now telling them. "When dealing with a serial offending paedophile, people often wonder how this behaviour can go undetected for so many years. I want to share with you a recent case study that we have been looking at in order to try to ensure that our policy is as evidence-based as possible. Obviously not all of the details here are in the public record, and I expect you all to respect that confidence. But consider, if you will, the case of Augustus Mortmaigne: a dangerous predator who was able to get away with abusing children known to him for years, before a related murder investigation caught him out." 

The slide clicked over to another header: _How and why does serial abuse go unnoticed?_

Fiona was still idly watching the back of Hathaway's neck, fondly remembering the way it would go red when he blushed. If she hadn't been paying such close attention she probably wouldn't have noticed the sudden tension in his shoulders. 

She glanced back towards the front for a second, at first slightly paranoid that James had somehow noticed that she was watching him, but no. She settled her gaze on him again, this time with the eye of an experienced police detective reading body language from a Person of Interest. He'd tensed up minutely: obviously trying not to show it. His breathing had speeded up; shallower now. Jaw clenched, and he's staring straight ahead at the front of the class. Ostensibly he's not moved: still with one leg crossed over the other, brightly socked right ankle resting on his left knee. Notebook still in lap, both hands resting on it now. No longer pen chewing, or indeed any fidgeting at all. 

As Smith started talking them through the warning signs of abuse, she outlined some of the details of her case study: some minor aristocrat, large estate in Oxfordshire. 

_Perhaps that's the connection,_ Fiona mused, _An abuse case uncovered in a murder enquiry: and a detective who specialises in murder. Likely his case._

It vaguely rings a bell from last time she had drinks with her old Oxford friends. Something about a country house murder and a paedo Lord. All very Agatha Christie, albeit for the tabloid age. 

"...Crevecoeur Hall," the presenter mentions as part of her spiel. And that's a different memory, not even one Fiona realised she had retained. 

___ ___  
___***___

The sun shone in, casting a golden light across the bed. James lay basking in it, on his side with his head propped up on his left hand. A coffee cup resting on the mattress in front of him, his right hand holding it steady in its precarious position. 

Fiona sat next to him, dressed in just an oversized t shirt and her underwear, cross legged and flicking through the pages of the Oxford Mail. She wasn't one for the local press, outside of its role in her work, but the culture section with listings of upcoming events was useful occasionally.

"We could do something today," she said to James. Half a question, but also not. He hummed in interest, taking an awkward sip of his coffee, before rolling on his back and depositing the half empty mug on the bedside table. 

He rolled back across, looming over her and kissing the side of her neck. 

"What did you have in mind?" he murmured. Voice low, in a way that went straight to her groin. He nuzzled in where he'd just kissed, but then slumped next to her on the pillow when she kept perusing the paper, instead of succumbing to his charms. 

"You like history," she went on, "there's an advert here for a Civil War reenactment thingy. Crevecoeur Hall - should be good territory for a pub lunch too," she offered. 

James had stilled briefly, and he pulled a face in response. 

"I've seen it before," he told her, with a reluctant note in his voice. "More than once." he added. 

"Big Civil War fan?" she asked. 

He snorted. 

"No. I spent some time there as a kid, that's all." 

He didn't add anything else, but rolled away from her to take another swig of his coffee. The sun cast the long line of his naked back a glorious golden hue, and she flung the newspaper on the floor and rolled after him. She kissed at the pink flush on the back of his neck, sliding a hand up his rib cage. 

"Let's just stay here, then." 

___ ___  
___***___

 

By the time Smith was listing a series of typical grooming behaviours, Fiona was starting to worry seriously about James' reaction. He had a connection to the Hall, she knew, though what it was she couldn't have said. And for a man who was almost always in motion his total stillness was extraordinary behaviour. 

"For example," Smith was explaining, "we know that Mortmaigne was keen to encourage musical talent in his victims. Gaining the parents' trust, and making the child feel special are two classic grooming behaviours."

Fiona retrieved her phone and tapped out a new message, shielding the screen from her seatmate and hoping she still had the right phone number. 

**Urgent: call me ASAP. Even if you're in a seminar session.**

She hit send then watched for his reaction. 

James was jolted out of his stunned posture as he grabbed at his pocket and then stared at his phone, the vibration notification of an incoming message having done its job. 

James took the message for the excuse it so clearly was, and gathered his possessions, nodding an apology to Smith as he ducked out of the session. 

He walked past Fiona on his way out. He didn't make eye contact at all, but she knew he had seen her. Either he hadn't kept her phone number (and she checked her phone was silenced in anticipation of an incoming call from him if that was the case); or he knew that she was just providing him with an excuse. 

Her own phone screen lit up with an incoming message just a few seconds later though.

**Thanks.**

Job done. 

\---

The advantage of having arrived to the session last and thus having the seat right by the door was that Fiona only had to wait a few minutes before she could subtly make her own escape. Fewer people to notice her departure, and she wasn't all that worried even if anyone thought it was odd that she followed another officer out of the conference room anyway. No one here would know that she had worked with Hathaway, and even if they did, they wouldn't be the first conference attendees in the world to skive off a session for social or personal reasons. 

She found him not far from the main door to the hotel lobby, sitting on the low wall that separated the car park from the footpath, and predictably smoking. 

"Want to talk about what that was?" she asked him, by way of greeting. No matter that they hadn't set eyes on each other in the three years intervening (aside from the across-the-room smile and nod a few times earlier in the week); Fiona was a big believer in avoiding awkwardness by simply barrelling past it as if everything was fine.

James considered her for a moment, looking up at her and squinting against the smoke in his eyes. 

"Not without being very drunk." he answered.The facetious deflection hiding the truth in plain sight. 

"Ok." 

Fiona simply stood there and waited. As soon as James finished the cigarette she was in motion. 

"Come on then, if you're coming." she called over her shoulder. 

Confused, James acquiesced. It was easier than arguing, anyway. 

\---

The caterers were already setting up lunch in the designated 'break out room' ( _Conferences and their ridiculous jargon_ Fiona thought). 

A quick flash of a conference ID card, a smile and some sweet talking, and the young man who was laying out the food had gone to find a couple of plastic takeaway containers so that Fiona and James could have their lunch to-go. _"Important police business,"_ she'd told the impressionable boy, _"we'll have to work through lunch"._

As soon as he'd left the room to find and fill some tupperware, Fiona completely shamelessly ducked behind the catering table, and pulled out one of the wine cases that were being stored ahead of the conference drinks reception that evening. 

"Here," she instructed, hefting the box and handing it to James. 

James for his part looked utterly bewildered, but nonetheless balanced the box and reached out to take her proffered keycard. 

"Room 206," she told him, "I'll be there in a second." 

He'd just rounded the corner when the catering boy came back, a small stack of tupperware clutched in his hand, along with a handful of plastic cutlery. He blushed and stammered slightly as Fiona offered her profuse thanks. 

 

"Did we just steal this wine?" James asked her, when he opened the door to let her into the room. 

"It's only an advance," Fiona defended, "We were going to be drinking it at the reception later."

"What, all six bottles of it?" he asked her, eyebrow raised.

She shrugged, and handed him one of the mugs from the hotel tea tray. 

He didn't protest further, just rolled his eyes and cracked open the screw top lid of the wine, pouring some into each of the mugs. 

They ate in silence, Fiona sitting at the small writing desk, while James reclined on the bed, shoes kicked off. The maid service had been in already and so the bed was neatly made. Her book and phone charger on the small bedside table, and the assorted cosmetics by the mirror were the only real signs of the room being inhabited. The rest of her clothes and her toiletries being out of sight in the wardrobe and the en suite respectively. 

James had just put down the rest of the food and poured his second mug of wine when Fiona spoke. 

"The first time we had sex, do you remember what you said?" she asked him. 

___ ___  
___***___

The first time James slept with Fiona, he didn't really mean to. 

It was the end of their first week embedded in real jobs, the two of them having graduated from the fast-track graduate entry training course together, before both being placed in the major crime team with Oxfordshire Police. It created a certain bond. When James was invited by Fiona's enthusiastic new colleagues to join them for a drink to celebrate her successful first week, his first reaction was to decline. His own team had been a lot more sedate, luckily, and the occasion of his surviving week one was marked only with brief nod from Knox, and a perfunctory _Have a good weekend,_ on the way out. 

Fiona seemed just as overwhelmed by her team's enthusiasm as James himself would have been though; she stood at the back of the scouting party who were inviting him for a drink and pulled a face when he made eye contact. 

"Don't abandon me to their clutches!" the face practically screamed. And James heard himself agreeing to come to the pub before he'd even realised he'd made the decision. 

They'd ended up in a pub just a few streets from James' flat. Around half 11, when Sergeant Marshall was ordering a second round of sambuca shots and listing potential bars for them to move on to once last orders was called, James managed to duck out unnoticed, grabbing Fiona on the way and the two of them made their escape. 

They stood huddled in the doorway of the pub, watching the rain pouring down in sheets, as Fiona called all of the taxi firms stored in her phone contacts, trying to find one with less than a two-hour wait to take her home. 

"Come on," James told her, as she hung up for the fifth time in a row, swearing under her breath. "I think it's easing off. We can make a dash for my place and you can wait out the taxi rush hour in the dry there."

They'd only gone half the way back to his flat though when there was a renewed effort from the rain clouds, and they were both soaked to the skin by the time they got indoors. 

James, ever the gentleman, had found some tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie for Fiona to borrow, switching on the central heating so that she could dry her own clothes over the radiator. He'd ducked into the shower quickly himself and by the time he came back into the living room in jeans and a t shirt layered over long sleeves, Fiona was pouring water from the kettle into two mugs. 

They settled into the sofa to drink their tea and reflect on their respective first weeks on the job. 

James really had had no ulterior motive when he'd invited Fiona in, and really was happy to simply provide shelter until she could safely get home. 

So it was a little surprising when she reached to take his mug away, set it on the coffee table and then kissed him. But she was nice, and they got on well, and so he wasn't above kissing her back, pulling her into his lap, and sliding his hands up the back of his own Cambridge University Boat Club hoodie and reveling in the glorious warmth of her skin. 

They'd made their way to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, and eventually, leaning over Fiona, he kissed her collarbone, and then stilled. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on a point on her neck, hands holding hers, he said, 

"Before I joined the Police, I was training to be a priest."

Thoughts and reactions slowed by the situation, along with the lateness of the hour and the earlier drinks, she managed only an ineloquent, "Oh?" in response. 

"I'm not--" James pulled back, slightly embarrassed. "I don't exactly do this often." 

Fiona pushed herself up on her elbows and considered him with a frown. 

"Are you saying -- Is this your first time?" she asked. 

"Depends on your definition." he told her, somewhat cryptically. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

"Do you want to stop?" she asked, unsure on the etiquette, or even really what he was trying to say. 

"No! No. I just...It doesn't matter." James told her. 

She raised an eyebrow at him, and then when he didn't add anything further, reeled him in and kissed him again.   
___ ___  
___***___

 

In the hotel room at the conference, James took another gulp of his wine, and looked blankly at Fiona. 

"Not really…" he said, in response to her question. 

"I asked if you were a virgin," Fiona reminded him, matter of factly. "And you gave me some vague cryptic response that neither confirmed nor denied it." 

She waited to see if he would respond to this, watching carefully for signs about whether her concerns might be in the right ballpark. Clearly something had distressed him in the seminar earlier, and his sketchiness about his sexual experience, combined with the mentioned familiarity with the now-known site of a convicted paedophile… 

No response from him, so she continued, highlighting the intuitive leap she hoped she'd got wrong. 

"And I remember once that you said you'd spent a lot of time at Crevecoeur Hall in your childhood." she prompted, and watched his face change as he realised the connection she'd made. Evidently he must have forgotten that she'd known that. 

James slumped back against the headboard, and pulled the spare pillow into his lap, cuddling it with one arm in a defensive pose. 

"It's not what you think." he said. "I mean, assuming you're thinking what I think you're thinking." 

"I think you're overthinking," she muttered, sure that there was a pun to be made from his somewhat incoherent elucidation. "Care to explain then?" she asked, at normal volume. 

"I didn't know. It was our murder investigation, and when I went there I had no idea. And then afterwards I had to give a statement to confirm that I hadn't known, and that Laxton didn't need to add me to the list of historic victims… " he scowled, clearly struggling with something.

"You seemed mightily uncomfortable when Smith was doing her bit on it earlier." Fiona prompted, trying to help him to focus. 

"I recognised a lot of that- That-- The 'grooming'." Fiona could almost hear the air quotes around the technical term. "What she was saying about the music lessons, and the preferential treatment, and-- All I could think was _But by the grace of God_." James swallowed hard, a fine tremble in his hands visible. 

Fiona crossed the small hotel room in two short strides and reached for him. James in turn twisted towards her, burying his face in her shoulder, shaking hard and gasping in an effort to keep from crying. 

Fiona held him as he sobbed, making generic shushing noises, moved by the show of vulnerability. Throughout the full two years of their acquaintance, and even in the most intimate moments of their on-again-off-again romance, she had never seen him so emotional. 

Once James started to calm down a bit, he pulled back from her slightly and scrubbed at his face with his shirt sleeve. Fiona rolled her eyes at him and crossed to the bathroom, lobbing the spare toilet paper roll at his head, while she ducked back in and poured him a glass of water from the bathroom tap. 

Setting the plastic cup of water next to his mug of wine, she went to the wardrobe, rummaged for a second and then triumphantly produced a worn hoodie, bearing the CUBC logo. It was a little more worn than the last time he'd seen it, one cuff starting to fray, and softened by years of washing and wearing. 

"You can borrow this back," Fiona told him, "for old times sake." 

James' eyes lit up at the sight of the familiar garment, lost forever he had assumed. Totally unselfconscious, he shed his smart-casual conference shirt, and donned comfort of his old hoodie instead. 

Fiona grinned at his delight, and climbed up next to him on the bed again, bringing the bottle of wine with her and topping up both of their mugs.

She settled in, leaning against James's chest, easy and familiar now that the tension was broken between them. 

"We don't have to go back for the afternoon sessions and the reception drinks, do we?" James asked, a slight whine in his voice. 

Fiona snorted in derision. "God, no." she said. "Emotional revelations definitely give us a free pass on awkward socialising and watching other delegates getting smashed on free wine." 

They clinked mugs in a silent toast, acknowledging the irony that they themselves were getting drunk on free conference wine. 

They sat quietly for a while, drinking in companionable silence. Then, 

"How will we manage to fill the entire afternoon then?" James asked, just a hint of flirtation in his tone. Easily dismissed as a joke if she wanted to, but Fiona recognised the invitation for what it was. 

She grinned and turned, setting down both their mugs on the bedside table before leaning in to kiss him. 

"Wait," she pulled back slightly, enjoying the open look of glee on James's face, his hair already slight askew from him donning the hoodie. She was looking forward to seeing him even more dishevelled. He'd always been twice as handsome in relaxation than he ever was in a formal work setting. 

"I have to know: our first time, _was_ that your first time?" she asked. 

He blushed, and looked away, tilting his head back to rest against the headboard. 

"Was I really that bad?" he asked, deflecting the question. 

"Well you seemed to have enough experience to know what you were doing," she told him. Even though he still wasn't meeting her eye, she knew he'd hear the smile in her tone of voice. "But then again I know that you can be very committed to your studies. Very thorough in your research." 

James huffed a laugh, amused. 

"It's not-" he paused, finally looking at her again, a faint blush visible across his cheekbones. "When I said it depends on your definition: I wasn't exactly without experience in sex, per se…" James paused. Then, "I know I maybe should have mentioned this at some point, but it didn't come up, and it was easier not to: I'm, well, bisexual, I suppose. I don't like the label much, but it's accurate enough to convey my meaning." 

"Go on," Fiona prompted. 

"My experience with women was, at that point, somewhat limited. A bit of a kiss and a cuddle here, the odd drunken fumble there."

"But with men…?" she read into the unsaid part of his explanation. 

James grinned, his voice dropping into the lowest register, and he leaned in again for another kiss. He paused before their lips met and murmured, 

"Well, I _did_ go to an all boys boarding school, you know…" 

Fiona giggled, pulling him down further into the bed, tugging the Boat Club hoodie back off him as she went.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The first rule of any good conference is: what happens at the conference stays at the conference.   
> \- I am highly intrigued about what Fiona and James' relationship must have been like. I like to think that they liked each other, probably had a lot in common in that I don't imagine either of them fit in easily with their colleagues, which is why I decided they probably were graduate entry scheme buddies.   
> \- I'm not entirely sure how wise it is, emotionally speaking, to jump into bed with your ex, when one of you is dealing with the emotional trauma of a narrow escape from childhood sexual abuse, but… let's just say, people have made worse decisions in life. Still: probably don't try this at home, and seek help from a professional therapist instead? IDK.   
> -"But by the grace of God" - so i googled to find the attribution of the more common "there but for the grace of god go I", and learned that it's a paraphrased Bible quote, and let's face it, James is going to know that, so here he is quoting part of Corinthians.   
> \- Things I was supposed to be writing instead of this: (1) the ending of my WIP fic, to save the gay population of Oxford from a serial killer; and, (2) my PhD thesis, OMFG.


End file.
